Editor’s Note

If you’re reading this, then that means you bought our magazine! In that

case, we just want to say… You’re awesome and thank you so much for con-

tributing to Madison Academic’s rst student-run literary-arts magazine!

Working with this diverse team of seniors and juniors has been the greatest joy-

ride. When we rst started this journey, we weren’t sure where to begin. We had

so many questions like, “How do we make a magazine? Who do we talk to? Do

you think the Times will answer us?” One of the few things we did know was

our theme, Home. We recently moved into our new campus, which was the high-

light of our semester. While we loved the feeling of the new campus combined

with the fresh air and drinkable water, there were many aspects we missed from

the old building. With this big move from our original home to our new home,

we dug deeper into what home actually means to each of us. On the cover, you

notice the planet Earth takes the form of a human heart, which symbolizes the

prominent phrase “Home is where the heart is.” The world, the continent, the

country, the state, the city, all correspond to our meaning of home; however, with-

in each contains a different story that composes who we are as individuals. To

me, home is where the aroma of freshly rolled our tortillas and bean tacos in a

brown paper bag ll the air. It’s where I can hide away from anything and every-

thing, and where the background noises are constantly lled with my siblings

playing some kind of made-up game or my mom playing Tejano classics. While

this is my version of home, The Storybook, is a representation of our members

through viewpoints in art and literature. We hope you enjoy this inaugural edition!

Table of Contents

My Jackson Home

- Lee Ann Fincher

mi casa, mi pais, mi hermoso

- Johanna Navarrete

Yearning for a Patch of Sunlight

- K. Night

Soften and Thaw

- Jessica Uko-Abasi

10.

it has always been you

- Mason Henson

11.

I’m Not Running Away

- Jackie Craig

12.

Emotion is a Place

- Lily K. Lewis

14.

Growing Pains

- K. Night

15.

Poem

- Jessica Uko-Abasi

16.

Home is a Homonym

- Tanna Ballard

18.

Home is Where the Heart is

- Callie Hollowell

19.

Refuge

- Breanna Datuin

20.

Will you turn the lamp on?

- Sarah Lancaster

21.

Macy invited us here. She doesn’t speak

. - Hadley Roten

22.

Home is Where the Books Are

- Ashlyn Jones

24.

Ma lune

- Ellie Pugh

25.

Earliest Memory: Chicago

- Ellie Pugh

27.

In the Dark, Hold on

- Amanda Smith

What denes Jackson Tennessee? Is it a college town housing Lane, Lambuth, and

Union; is it found in the rhythm of Rockabilly music, or in the faces of the 67,000 people who

call Jackson TN home? For Sandy Fincher, Jackson has been home since 1981 when she rst

arrived in town to attend Union University. For her, Union, and soon the city of Jackson was

a place to “thrive but wasn’t too big to be lost.” Nestled between Nashville and Memphis TN,

Jackson was the perfect place to have access to city life without the expense of city living and

became a place where Mrs. Fincher felt safe. For 40 years she has watched the city grow into

bigger and better things.

“Over the years, I have seen many things change here. The town has grown in many

ways; an industry explosion in the late 1980s and early 1990s brought people from all over the

United States to Jackson.” Prior to this, Jackson had limited industry, but this change intro-

duced companies that produced electric wires, paint guns, and air compressors. “The oppor-

tunities were endless” with industry from Procter and Gamble, Delta Faucet Company, Pinna-

cle Foods, and more. Healthcare and education in Jackson TN would be changing, and West

Tennessee Healthcare would become the largest employer in the city. The growth of healthcare

and education services helped Jackson to change from just a manufacturing-based economy

into a community with a large service-centered economy.

Another economic boom has been in locally owned businesses. “It is so great to see lo-

cals honored in their businesses where they use their intellect and knowledge to display what

they produce along with their talents.” Mrs. Fincher expressed this when discussing such busi-

nesses as the Farmers’ Market, Turntable Coffee, Dixie Castle, Light Trap Books, and the multi-

ple local boutiques. Downtown Jackson has welcomed a wide range of locally owned eateries,

boutiques, cafes, and salons. While Jackson had once been lled with locally owned stores

downtown, the creation of the Old Hickory Mall shifted the business away from downtown.

For many years, these buildings were empty. It is exciting to see such growth and the variety

of stores putting down new roots in this area. The Jackson community preserves the feeling of

being “local” through their love and admiration for these business owners.

Education in Jackson has changed drastically in the last four decades. “Shortly before I

My Jackson Home

Lee Ann Fincher

came to Jackson, the county schools and city schools merged into one school district.” This

made many smaller county schools close and forced the students to move into city schools,

signicantly changing the student body. The school system worked to maintain a balanced

diverse student body by requiring each school to follow a 50/50 balance between majorities

and minorities. “This caused a lot of stress on all parents in the school system because children

were constantly being moved, or redistricting, to a different school.” Some families moved into

surrounding counties.

The Jackson-Madison County school system would grow into a place catering to wide

interest. “We have high schools that are as diverse as the students who attend them.” South

Side High School is known for its vocational classes and theater programs while Liberty High

School has an incredible ROTC program along with agricultural classes. Early College High

allows you to earn your associate degree at the same time you are earning your high school

diploma. Madison Academic Magnet High School prepares students to face the challenges

of the best colleges in the country with all honor classes. And the latest addition to the high

school system is Jackson Central Merry which functions as a medical technology magnet high

school allowing you to get a head start on a career in the medical eld. The expansion of the

TCAT programs allows many students to enter the workforce as soon as they graduate with a

marketable skill. Each of these schools helps the students to pursue the educational direction

that suits everyone.

Jackson has long been known for its musical inuence with the birth of Rockabilly

music. This was a combination of the new Rock and Roll music coming from Memphis and the

traditional country music coming from Nashville. Many famous musicians got their start here

in Jackson and no one more famous than Carl Perkins. Carl had the respect of many rock and

roll and country artists. Mrs. Fincher reminisced about artists visiting Carl to co-write songs.

“Everyone would create rumors about who was here but usually it was not until the person

had left town that a story would be featured in the local paper reporting who had been here.”

People such as Dolly Parton and Paul McCarthy often visited Carl for several days at a time

co-writing songs with him.

For years, people have gone to the Hard Rock Café across the country, but few people

know the rst one in the United States started here in Jackson TN. in the mall. The restaurants

were already famous in Europe when the two owners decided to compete to see who could

open a café the quickest in the United States. Isaac Tigrett made a phone call to his mom who

was developing Old Hickory Mall and within a matter of a few weeks, he had opened his café.

Mrs. Fincher recalled when it rst opened in the mall. “It was a small area near the main en-

trance. It started as a kiosk with a limited menu and has grown into a nationwide chain.” As

the restaurants spread across the country, each developed a way to represent the unique histo-

ry of its area. Jackson paints a place to grow for all desires and pursuits. With the expansion of

the new arts district, Jackson is going to house many interests. This stretch will ood with col-

or and expression from theatre to murals, and the music that lls the voices of Jackson. Jackson

cultivates such art from the NED McWether Cultural arts Center, Lights Up! Theatre Co., the

Carnegie documenting the rhythmic life of Jackson TN., the Ballet Arts, and the murals lining

the walls of locally owned businesses. Lizzie Emmons with the Public Arts Commission calls

this home for the arts a designated space “...within the City of Jackson that we are encouraging

the continued creation of art making and art performing here,” said Lizzie Emmons, with the

Public Arts Commission. “We are now sparking all of the creative ideas that are going to come

from the artists and businesses that are already here,”. Jackson has taken leaps into recogniz-

ing the talents of neighbors, children, and family through their recognition of the arts.

Jackson’s blossom into a eld of interest has opened the doors for people of all backgrounds.

It has grown to become the home of artists, musicians, doctors, and many more. Diversity in

Jackson has grown 11% since the 1980s. In response to cultural growth Jackson hosts an annual

International Food and Arts festival. It allows people to come together, educate themselves,

experience other cultures, and honor others. It features a parade, music, presentations, food,

and dance to honor people’s ethnicities. “The colors and the comradery are the most beautiful

sights.” Mrs. Fincher commented. Since the beginning the festival has grown tremendously

and in prep for the 7th annual IFAF it is exciting to experience the practices that unite us and

take time to honor those around us.

So, what denes Jackson? Is it a growing southern town parked in between two big cit-

ies, is it an education eld that has adapted to the diverse minds of the students, or history in

the arts? Jackson is a city that has changed much and only has room to grow. “I have watched

Jackson change from a sleepy little southern town into a larger more diverse town” Mrs. Finch-

er ends. There are so many new projects expanding our community. Jackson is a place where

you can nd almost anything you are looking for- it’s a place you can build a home.

mi casa, mi pais, mi mexico hermoso

Johanna Navarrete

Gouache on Paper

18 in x 24 in

I nd it in subtle glimpses

Like sun-rings surrounding eclipses

In the golden moments, it sparks

But far too quickly I am left in the dark

An eternal winter lasts forever, they said

When shines the sun, the grass is all dead

But they never speak of evergreens,

Hardy in long winters, hoping for spring

The Queen of snow, solitary and alone

With no love and no place to call home

But the cloak of snow and ice will retreat

A suffocated soul ready to be free

She needs not spring, she’s been resigned

To never hoping for too much time

But in warm moments when sun shines clear

Frosty eyes turn to blue skies and hope nears

She needs not spring, only a moment in light

That her frozen-stuck heart may take ight

Just to feel the eeting heat of a passing star

Melting a frozen patch, soil scarred

The ground is not pretty beneath my snow

But with tender light perhaps I’ll grow

A gentle spotlight, carefully thawing eyes

Just to see my heart is not all ice

I need no patch of sun, however

Just extend your hand and promise forever

I’d forgo light for winter’s eternity

If only your warm soul stayed with me

I need no spotlight, no claim to fame

If you’ll alight me with gentle gaze’s ame

And in blue-gray moments I could nd

A golden happiness I’ve since lost to time

I need not eyes if voice alone could speak,

And set a roaring blaze to my cheeks

I need no home, not one to nd

If I could only pay you back in kind

Your patient heart housed me in darkest days

And in brightest nights, I praised

Your admiration’s haze as it conspired

And I had no clue what might transpire

That love might blossom into short eternity

And you might nd a shelter in me

In doing so, guiding me home to your heart

To the eeting light your love sparks

Your weak light that you said you so hated

Is the only love I’ve been demonstrated

That didn’t come with pain, though it burned

And now that it’s gone, how sadly I yearn

Yearning for a Patch of Sunlight

K. Night

Soften and Thaw

Jessica Uko-Abasi

Digital

1600 px x 1200 px

March 18, 2022

it has always been you

Mason Henson

whenever i daydream of home,

and lately i often do,

when i close my eyes, it’s not a place

it has always been you.

whenever it’s early sunrise,

i wait until stars break through,

when i stop to gaze, it’s not a sun,

it has always been you.

those soft hues, of red and blue

that fall ever so gently on your thigh,

the clouds that resemble silk on you,

pair with the breeze of your passing by,

no matter where home is, you’re near me

and you’d assume this to be untrue,

funny, each time i’ve fallen in love

it has always been you

I am not running away from home.

I’m certainly moving away.

I’m racing in the opposite direction,

Feeling the wind against my face and the

pavement against my feet.

My haste is compelled by the shallow building

that lies behind me.

In my wake I leave confusion,

Unacceptance,

Instability and decay.

If I were to glance backwards,

I’d be whisked to short tempers and messiness,

Thrown into memories of mole-hill mountains

And complacency when confrontation is

necessary.

I leave a false sense of control,

A push to be perfect that leaves mental

scarring for decades to come.

I leave a refusal to seek help,

Even when independence becomes

problematic for others.

But I am not running away from home.

I’m running towards it.

I’m sprinting in the direction of hope and

freedom,

Praying that I may nally achieve the rest of

which I dream nightly.

I lunge towards health,

Towards serenity,

Towards freedom to exist in my most

authentic self.

It’ll be calm, collected,

With my ducks in a row and no dogs to

speak of.

No more boisterousness or overstimulation,

Solely peace, quiet, and, above all, comfort.

Judgement of days past will chase me,

Track my footsteps,

Run me down like a natural predator.

It won’t matter.

I’ll be safe in my home-to-be.

All I have to do is arrive.

It is for this reason-

That I run.

I’m Not Running Away

Jackie Craig

The house was embedded with bad memories, and it behaved as such. It was almost

as if the house wanted its inhabitants to know it was unhappy. There was an echo of ghts

and accusations. There were pipes full of frustrated tears and pillowcases stuffed with sleep-

less nights. There were hopes and there were dreams, in that house, but they were hard to see

when the blinds were always drawn, the lights were always off, the TV was always

droning

on. It was too quiet, and too loud all at once. With every step the oor would creak and shad-

ows seemed deep and many. There was a kitchen, a living room, and a bathroom, like any oth-

er house. There were a couple bedrooms, a few closets, and one attic. There was a front yard;

there was a backyard. There was a porch. But all of it, even in the light of day, shone dim.

The little boy who grew up here never saw his parents very much. They were always

busy doing something else. The house treated them coldly, and for some reason, they seemed

to fear it almost. However, the house, so bristly and cold, seemed warm and welcoming to the

boy who had never known kindness. So, he sat alone and made friends with this dark creature,

and he soon made a habit of hiding in dusty corners to talk to the house about his day. The

house, to the boy, seemed to respond in kind, and although it never really answered, he spoke

all the same. Many years passed, and nothing changed.

And then one day, the boy turned eighteen. His parents, who hadn’t spoken much to

him before, called from downstairs that it was time to leave. The boy (for he was not yet a

man), begged and pleaded to remain with the house, the house that had been his only friend.

But he was denied and kicked out. Heartbroken and sorrowful the boy walked onward, hav-

ing no where to go. Every thought was of the house: it was almost unbearable to leave it. He

had never known anything but sorrow and fear and loneliness, and he denitely didn’t know

how to leave. This house, which he had learned to befriend, represented the loneliness and

fear he had lived in for so long. When he left that place, he nally realized that there was so

much more out there than the cold little world he had known. And so, he decided to make his

own house, one no one could take away from him, one where he could be happy.

In his mind, he made a house of love and care, something he had never experienced. It

wasn’t a castle, it wasn’t a mansion, it was just a shack. But it was his and it was beautiful and

Emotion is a Place

Lily K. Lewis

that was more than enough for him.

This shack was lovely in every way. The sun shone through open blinds every morn-

ing, and there was a chair in the backyard just

meant

for looking at the stars. Everything was a

perfect little mess, not too neat, not too disorganized. A marvelous, controlled chaos. The door

was always open to anyone who needed a place to rest and grow and love. There were no

shadowy corners; there were no creaky oors. There was a soothing, peaceful quiet—the kind

of silence where people heal--but there was so much laughter, too. There wasn’t a screeching

TV, just an open door. And although his old, cold house sat across the way like an early mem-

ory, it didn’t taint the joy of his sunny shack because he chose not to let it.

The old house became farther and farther from his thoughts. He learned how to love

others and how to make real friends and to be joyful. All that came from a choice. And al-

though he once believed home was a place, he now knew it was a feeling, and he nally un-

derstood. Home is where you choose to be, in your heart and soul, and what emotions you

spend the most time cultivating in your mind. He smiled and knew everything would be okay.

Love and joy was exactly where he wanted to be. And no one,

no one

could

ever

take that

away.

Growing Pains

K. Night

Acrylic on Canvas Panel

8 in x 11 in

To most, home is a singular and physical place.

It is a house with a roof and windows and doors and rooms,

but the people who reside in it matter more.

To them, home is a solid concept,

a community full of comfort, reassurance, and joy.

But I have many different homes

With different moods and memories.

My collective home is an amalgamation

Of different places, stories, and memories,

each with their own feelings and perspectives.

I enter these homes of mine through sudden sensory.

A taste of red velvet cake can take me to a home

Full of cheer and laughter on my birthday,

And yet the sound of breaking glass brings me to a home

Full of discord in just a few seconds.

This concept is uid and everchanging

To me, home is almost everywhere.

Poem

Jessica Uko-Abasi

Once upon a time, there lived a happy little family on a happy little hill. They were per-

fect. Perfect car, perfect house. Perfect people. They lived happily ever after. The End.

That’s how most stories go, right? I must be an outlier. My home is lack thereof. My

home is barely a home. Home is a four-letter word with millions of meanings and yet I still

cannot nd one for mine. I have searched for eighteen years, and I have to say, my eyes need

to be checked.

In the dark hours of midnight, my twisting and turning is a result of the overwhelming

steam engine of thoughts chugging through my head. 3 a. m. has a way of bringing out the

anxieties buried during the day. My brain is a home for nestled thoughts. As I pull out my

laptop and open YouTube, I mindlessly scroll, searching for a video to ood the racing brain.

“New House Tour” ies up the page and my scrolling ceases. While I watch the pretty wife

pan the camera around the elegant marble walls, the anxiety surfaces.

Why can’t my home be

like this? What did I do in my past life to deserve less than nothing?

As the hours tick by, the sun peaks its head out of the horizon. I sit on the porch with a

cup of coffee, hot steam blending with the morning dew. The chirp of the blackbirds snaps me

into reality. The structural layout of the world around me is something only a God could con-

struct. Maybe home is not so dreadful as the demons of midnight make me believe. Finishing

off my last sips of coffee, my mother comes out of the door and sits on the porch with me.

“You’re up early.”

I jostled in my seat.

“Never went to sleep.”

This conversation repeats itself often. My insomnia enjoys playing games.

With the sun settled in its place in the heavenly sky, my thoughts settled, too. My home

Home is a Homonym

Tanna Ballard

is not my home. My home is the stars in the sky and the grass on the ground. My home is the

teacher that greets me every morning with a smile and knows the instant that something is

wrong. My home is the parents of my friend that make me feel like their own. My home is the

beaten-up stop sign that resides on the end of my street. My home is my crazy family that hoot

and holler at any given event. My home is around my home. And yeah, I don’t have a perfect

house and a perfect family, but that denition simply does not t in my meaning of of home.

And that’s OK.

Home is Where the Heart is

Callie Hollowell

Digital

March 14, 2022

The familiar panes now let in light

As I see inside that place

Where triumphs and defeats occurred

And forever left their trace.

The threshold sparks vivid memories

Which ll the absent mind

With hope and love and maturity

That come and go with time.

Along the cracks and crevices,

The walls speak clear, true words

Of promises that go unbroken

And secrets left unheard.

The notches on the door grow higher

Until they reach their peak

Like branches of the great oak tree

That touch the sky they seek.

A settlement of dust protects

The surface of the past

Where remnants of that long gone time

Stay where we left them last.

The warmth that radiates within

All these small, tender things

Connects me to that sense of safety

That only home can bring.

A pleasant space that still is lled

With so much love and life

Is where I’ll go in search of comfort

From loneliness and strife.

Refuge

Breanna Datuin

Will you turn the lamp on?

Sarah Lancaster

Oil on Canvas

16 in x 16 in

March 22. 2022

Macy invited us here. She doesn’t speak.

Hadley Roten

Colored Pencil on Paper

18 in x 24 in

March 22. 2022

Macy invited us here. She doesn’t speak.

Hadley Roten

Colored Pencil on Paper

18 in x 24 in

March 22. 2022

Home is Where the Books Are

Ashlyn Jones

Home is not a place. It’s not a person or a physical object. Home is a feeling. It’s the

validation you receive after getting a good grade on the paper you poured your heart and soul

into. It’s the comfort yet disgust you feel when you see the crockpot sitting on the counter. It’s

the butteries you get before pressing play on the new season of your favorite show. Home is

the good, the bad, the sweet, and the sour. Home is where you feel complete and fragmented

at the same time. It’s where you nd solace in your imperfection.

For me, literature provides the feeling of home. There’s something special about shar-

ing intensely personal experiences and nding a vast amount of people who relate. When

you can’t nd the words to express how you feel, it’s comforting knowing someone else has

probably already found them for you. Pick up

It’s Kind of a Funny Story

by Ned Vizzini and

you’ll nd you’re not the only one who’s mental health suffers once they join an academically

prestigious high school. You could check out

Eleanor & Park

by Rainbow Rowell and discover

you’re not unaccompanied in your insecurity with body image. However you may feel, there

is certainly a book that helps express those feelings. If there isn’t, you could be the one to write

it.

Home does not have to be the house you come back to at the end of the day. Home in-

cludes relief and relaxation, and for most people, those are not found in the place you go to af-

ter school. Literature provides a form of escapism that allows individuals to teleport to another

place. If one is feeling alone or misunderstood, venture to Northern Italy in

Call Me By Your

Name

by André Aciman. Or, if you’re feeling held back by your anxiety, vacation to Australia

A Room Called Earth

by Madeleine Ryan.

One shouldn’t let the intimidation of pre-existing art stop them from creating some-

thing beautiful themselves. Writing creates home. Some individuals favor buying a house, but

some crave building it. I love creating a written piece where I feel I’ve used my creativity to

make an impact or stir up an emotion. When someone writes— whether it be a story, poem, ar-

ticle, etc.— it presents an opportunity to give a voice to the voiceless, to welcome them home.

Literature offers not only an outlet, but an expression of self. It allows people to com-

municate as well as listen. It provides representation, comfort, and a way to clear your mind.

Reading and writing provide a feeling of home to me. When things get difcult, I can always

pick up a John Green novel and feel listened to. I know when I end up buying my own house,

it won’t be complete without a library. Home is where the books are.

Ma lune

Ellie Pugh

Digital

March 22. 2022

Earliest Memory: Chicago

Ellie Pugh

Forward Infront of me, the greyish slab of earth seemed to stretch on forever as the seat

I had been placed in proceeded forward until it reached a break, light in front of me blink-

ing red. Cars of many different colors turned in-between the break in the slab trail, produc-

ing quick loud

whooshing

sounds as they proceeded. It seemed like forever that I had been

stopped there motionless as the colorful vehicles passed and I had begun to close my eyes

tiredly when the light’s color again changed to green, and I was once again strolling down the

greyish path ahead of me.

The buildings surrounding me were tall and wide. Windows – which I had enjoyed

looking out to the owers from in my bedroom at home – lled nearly every inch of the struc-

ture and I wondered if they too were looking at the owers that lled the grass that was con-

tained in the gray slab in the center of the quickly passing by vehicles. I was sure they were.

The path in front of me was certainly not something I’d look at from a window. It was boring

and colorless. It

must

be the owers.

A loud squall lled my ears but the people who walked along alongside me and my

parents did not seem alarmed by this peculiar sound as it echoed through the tall structures

around us. It was a sound I mostly heard on nights when wind shook the trees and loud cracks

of light lled the sky. It was a scary sound.

The people around me were as peculiar as the sounds themselves. Some walked past

quickly, holding a square suitcase in their hand before walking to a stairwell that went un-

derground. I had no idea where the underground staircase went but I imagined it must go

to another part of the place. Maybe that place too had tall, windowed structures overlooking

owers. I thought it must, though I could not stretch my neck far enough to see any of it. Other

people stood on the sides of the tall structures with shiny instruments in their hands, music

lling the air around them. It was strange to think that my dad had grown up in such an odd

place with such unusual places and people. It was vastly different from the quiet of home.

As we continued the path over the large ag covered bridge, our pace slowed, and my

parents began to talk about the color of the river.

“They dye the river green for St. Patrick’s Day,” said my dad as he looked down to me,

“Might be able to come back and see it sometime.”

But the water was already green. Its color was unlike any other water I’d seen which was

typically a blueish grey. Its color was just lighter than the trees that crowded around its sides

below the bridge. I told my dad this and he laughed. The water could get greener.

After my mother took a few pictures of the very green water, we moved forward and

were once again sandwiched between the big, windowed buildings. What they could possibly

need all of the large buildings for I did not know, but they stretched on for seemingly forever.

We stopped at some of them as we went but even when we did there seemed to be no explana-

tion for the height as most of the stores my mother wanted to stop in to look in did not tower to

the sky as the buildings they were in did.

The buildings stopped once again on the left side of the street for the park which was ac-

companied by a giant peanut. We did not stop at the giant peanut but continued past it and the

green lions ahead of us – which I made an attempt to pet from my stroller – and turned down

the street ahead of with trees, shrubs, and owers completely replacing the large, towering

buildings that had towered above me moments before. Ahead, water shot up in the air, creating

a loud thundering sound as the airborne water fell back to the pool at its surface.

The pool of water looked good for swimming but there was no one swimming or

splashing in it and as we got closer, I saw that there had been a fence placed around it to pre-

vent this. Quietly, I wondered if anyone had ever gotten past the fence and sat alongside the

light blue-green horses that lay in the fountain’s water.

In the Dark,

Hold on

Amanda Smith

Acrylic on Canvas

14 in x 11 in

March 25, 2022

Acknowledgements

JMCSS - Dr. Marlon King

The Innovation Team - Mrs, Plyler, Dr. McSweeney, Mrs. Taylor

Courtney Searcy -

Our Jackson Home

Anthony Kirk

The Sewanee Review

Jennifer Christensen

Editor

Natalie Puente

Editorial Staff

Sara Billingsley

Chris Clark

Ashlyn Jones

Lily K. Lewis

Seth Pratt

Tiffany Soriano

Jeremy Young

Design Editor

Callie Hollowell

Team Leaders

Anmar Abdi

Brennen Flowers

Callie Hollowell

Lily K. Lewis

Natalie Puente

Millie Treadway

Faculty Sponsors

Sara Billingsley

Chris Clark

Printed By

Tennessee Industrial Printing, Inc.

in Jackson, Tennessee, 2022

Madison Academic